I’ve lived enough to believe that it doesn’t exist -
This sought after abstract bit.
Romance is dead? Or perhaps sleeping?
‘Cause it seems to always miss me in its moments a fleeting.
I used to wonder what it might be like,
But I’m grown up now and those thoughts now seem childlike.
The “magic” spoken of, the butterflies mentioned -
The illusive picture painted, the fallible pretensions.
I once craved this gem that didn’t seem so rare,
I even blamed myself and thought it a fear.
But I’m no longer afraid of such a common thing,
For I now look towards less vulgar settings.
Since experiences taught much and forecasts gave me my cue.
If it should present itself to me now, I’d think it not true.